


risk assessment

by wyverning



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Drabble, Eden's Twilight, M/M, Terrible First Impressions, neil on the run, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 23:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: “What can I do for you?” the bartender asks after a few minutes. He seems friendly, but Neil supposes that’s the point.“Uh,” he says, staring blankly at all of the hard liquor displayed behind him. He needs to blend in, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to put himself at a disadvantage by becoming intoxicated. “Can I just get like, a coke?”“A coke,” the bartender repeats. “You the DD or something?”“Yeah, sure.” Whatever will get him a drink that looks appropriately alcoholic and like he belongs here and not in an alleyway being brutally murdered.
Relationships: Neil Josten & Andrew Minyard
Comments: 7
Kudos: 111





	risk assessment

**Author's Note:**

> nanowrimo is a month of hell and forced motivation to write, so i'll probably be churning out a ton of random fics here and there over the course of november. we did a little aftg game of creation telephone, and this was my initial idea!
> 
> might continue this someday, who knows.

Even without stepping inside, Neil is absolutely positive that Eden’s Twilight is _ not _ his style.

If pressed, he’s not sure what his style would even _ be, _ but it’s not like he’s around others enough for them to even get a half-decent read on him. (That’s kind of the point.)

Regardless, it’s so far from Neil’s typical fare that it’s perfect camouflage. It’s Saturday night, which means it’ll be easy to get lost in a huge, writhing crowd. If his father’s men, who have chased him halfway across the city over the past few hours, are anything to go by, then getting lost in a huge, writhing crowd is _ exactly _ what Neil needs right now.

He thinks he has a few IDs in his bag that qualify him as over 21, but Neil doesn’t think he _ really _ needs it until the menacing-looking bouncer stares at him disbelievingly. It becomes very clear very quickly that he’s not about to get in easily.

With a quick, frantic look behind him, to see if his father’s men are anywhere nearby, Neil tears out his wallet and hands the bouncer a few bills. 

The bouncer stares at him.

Neil stares at the bouncer.

With a grimace, like he’s terribly put-upon to take this bribe, he takes the bills and then waves him in. 

The clap of a hand on his shoulder nearly startles Neil into bolting, but it’s just some overly-friendly drunk girl who cackles, “That was ballsy! Nice work, pipsqueak,” before she carries on her merry way.

He needs to blend in quick. Standing at the entrance of a club probably isn’t the best way to do that, so Neil ducks his head and makes his way inside, where the bass of some terrible song is blasting in every direction.

There’s a stool at the bar that’s empty, and Neil slips into it before digging out a hoodie from his duffle bag. Putting the hood on will be too suspicious in a place like this, but at least it’s a vastly different color than the shirt he’s wearing underneath it.

“What can I do for you?” the bartender asks after a few minutes. He seems friendly, but Neil supposes that’s the point.

“Uh,” he says, staring blankly at all of the hard liquor displayed behind him. He needs to blend in, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to put himself at a disadvantage by becoming intoxicated. “Can I just get like, a coke?”

“A coke,” the bartender repeats. “You the DD or something?”

“Yeah, sure.” Whatever will get him a drink that looks appropriately alcoholic and like he belongs here and not in an alleyway being brutally murdered.

The bartender — Roland, his nametag says in the blue-green-red flash of overhead lights — hands him the can. 

“No,” Neil says quickly. The can’s a dead giveaway. “In a cup?”

“Oh, of course,” Roland smirks. “That’ll cost extra, though.”

Fuck. Neil’s too frazzled from the near-miss of Jackson locking eyes with him to think clearly. “How much?”

Roland actually _ laughs. _ “Christ, kid, I was joking. Here’s your cup.” He’s quickly waved down by another patron, and flashes Neil a wink before he goes.

The cup is just barely out of his reach — fuck the weird height of this barstool — and Neil has to half-stand to grab at it from the sticky countertop.

As he’s settling back into his seat, he bumps into someone, and Neil watches almost in slow-motion as the guy who’d just grabbed an entire tray of shots twists awkwardly and spills the entire tray on himself. It’s entirely Neil’s fault; he’d forced the guy off-balance, and to compensate, he’d turned the drinks in his own direction.

“What the fuck,” the guy he’s just inadvertently soaked with what had to be at least a hundred bucks worth of alcohol says flatly. He’s short, and blond, and very, very pissed off.

“Shit,” Neil says, though it has more to do with the gasping of the crowd surrounding them than any actual remorse toward the blond’s current predicament.

“You owe me for this,” the man says with startling certainty. He’s glaring at Neil something fierce, the lights flickering above them in technicolor. The sharp smell of vodka radiates off of him.

_ Nope, _ Neil thinks somewhat hysterically as he considers the best exit route. It appears that Plan: Hide in a Club and Go Incognito has, unfortunately, become an unmitigated disaster.


End file.
